


Each Moment is a Day

by FoxRafer



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-14
Updated: 2011-06-14
Packaged: 2017-10-30 09:21:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/330193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoxRafer/pseuds/FoxRafer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for <a href="http://monaboyd-month.livejournal.com/"><b>monaboyd_month</b></a> 2011. A slice of life story set in an au where Billy owns and operates a small cafe/gallery (Luminarts) and Dom is a photographer. The title comes from a quote by Benjamin Disraeli (But what minutes!  Count them by sensation, and not by calendars, and each moment is a day.)</p>
    </blockquote>





	Each Moment is a Day

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [**monaboyd_month**](http://monaboyd-month.livejournal.com/) 2011\. A slice of life story set in an au where Billy owns and operates a small cafe/gallery (Luminarts) and Dom is a photographer. The title comes from a quote by Benjamin Disraeli (But what minutes! Count them by sensation, and not by calendars, and each moment is a day.)

Luminarts doesn't open for breakfast but Billy's up at the crack of dawn every morning, doing the books, checking receipts, making another of his endless daily lists. He's not a pedantic man, just somewhat forgetful, and he likes the satisfied feeling he gets of seeing item after item crossed off as the day goes on. Plus, as he's always keen to remind Dom, he only has himself to run the place - himself and Gina, his chef, but her skills in managing a kitchen and creating dishes like no other keep the seats filled with regulars and tourists alike. He doesn't mind her staying focused on what she loves best.

Unless it's the weekend and Billy has made porridge, a big steaming bowl regardless of the temperature outside, Dom often wakes up to the smell of frozen waffles and a slight charred scent from the burned edges Billy seems incapable of avoiding. It's not that he's especially fond of waffles, but they're a good substitute for toast, which in his hands end up looking like two bricks of charcoal. When they're not grabbing something downstairs, Dom's usually the one who cooks. He gains an inexplicable pleasure from knowing there's at least one tangible thing, besides photography, that he's better at than Billy. Billy starts ok - he'd make a great prep cook – but it's the finishing where he falls flat. Dom enjoys his forays in the kitchen, diving in with the enthusiasm of a puppy or a six-year-old child. He views it almost as an art project, mixing the right colors and accents to create something new and unique.

Some mornings it's the sound of rustling papers and quiet oaths that welcome Dom to the day. Barely audible above the quiet buzz of activity outside, Dom wakes himself up trying to guess what offense the computer has given Billy this time. He's the one who convinced Billy that a Web site and blog, Facebook and Twitter would be good marketing tools, and Billy has to admit he'd been right. But Billy has a low threshold for technology; he's quick to frustration, which often leads to exasperation, and shortly thereafter anger. Dom can't deny that he enjoys Billy's version of raving. Partly it's the accent, which strengthens to the point Dom can almost not understand him. But mostly it's knowing other people would look at Billy stalking through the room, gesticulating and muttering, straightening or tidying things as he goes, and not see a man who's just lost his temper. He likes knowing more about Billy than others, just as he likes Billy knowing more about him.

On those mornings Dom will force himself out of bed earlier than normal, pull on a pair of boxers and a t-shirt, and quietly evict Billy from his office chair. Billy will stand beside him for a moment, needing to at least pretend he's going to put up a fight, then shuffle whatever he was working on in front of Dom with a quick explanation. Billy always writes things out with pen and paper first; his Luddite tendencies can be strong at times, but Dom has to admit Billy writes best when not using a keyboard. He's used to Billy's handwriting, so it's easy for him to finish the blog post or update the menu, upload new pictures and add appropriate and catchy captions, and for good measure maybe even respond to a few tweets doing his best Billy impersonation. At some point Billy will return with a hot cup of tea and a small bowl of fruit. He'll stand behind Dom for a few moments, combing his fingers through Dom's hair, letting Dom wash over him in that silently overwhelming way that makes Billy's toes curl.

 

Today, however, is the best kind of morning. Dom can hear Billy on the balcony plucking quietly on his guitar, ever mindful of the early hour and that most of their neighbors will likely still be in bed. He's been working on something for the past few days, an idea that came to him in the bath, he says, and Dom wishes he'd been there to witness the moment of inspiration. Billy only plays for Dom, but one of these days Dom's confident he'll finally convince Billy to go to the open mike night at Gaffney's Pub. Until then he loves welcoming the morning with his own private and exclusive performance.

He wishes more than ever that Billy could come with him today. After a month of completing contracts, of banking the 'professional' time that allowed him to pursue more personal projects, he was finally able to go back to the abandoned church he'd found about fifty miles south, and he would love for Billy to see it. The empty cathedral, half of its roof missing, the stained glass that once filled the windows now forming jagged kaleidoscopes on the floor, an almost unearthly light streaming through the now exposed beams and the empty arches set high along both walls. Billy would appreciate the space, the vaulted angles and broken symmetry. He'd begin to imagine it rebuilt, new life breathing through it, and he'd get that almost wistful look on his face as his mind wandered through unimagined possibilities.

Dom loves that they see these places from different sides of the same coin. He saw something sacred in the detritus, could see beauty and grace in the wreckage. He knows Billy doesn't always see what's caught his attention, why a particular corner or pile of twisted metal interests him. But when he shows him the picture, not in the camera or even the newly developed film, but after he's finished processing it, turning it into the vision in his mind, the look on Billy's face makes his stomach do somersaults and backflips. A mixture of respect, admiration and love, with a gentle softness he can't describe but he's only seen in Billy's eyes.

So Dom stretches and rolls out of bed, opens the window even further so he can lean out with his elbows on the sill. The corners of Billy's mouth slowly turn up, the slight smile the only acknowledgement he knows Dom is there. Dom leans out even further and closes his eyes, lets the sun heat his skin, its light shuttering in and out of clouds. Maybe he'd wait to go to the church tomorrow, when the cafe would be closed and Billy had the day off. He knew crawling around in a derelict structure wasn't really Billy's idea of fun, but if it meant spending the day together Dom thought he could be persuaded.

 

Several customers are in for an early lunch, the overcast, drizzly weather keeping many from heading down to the beach. Dom sits at the counter in full salesman mode while Billy stands across from him trying not to smile.

Billy's reticence is mostly for show. The truth is he had no real plans for his day off, would most likely end up spending the day working, so why not go exploring with Dom. But he enjoyed listening to Dom talk about the buildings he discovered, about any of the finds that caught his photographer's eye. His passion and enthusiasm were electrifying and infectious, and often Billy just wanted to ride the wave for as long as he could.

Billy wraps his hands around the large cup, enjoys the warmth seeping through his fingers. The cups at Luminarts are huge, so big they're also used for soup, and Billy often wonders if he does in fact have the cheapest coffee in town because of all the extra he serves filling them up. They were picked out by Dom, who'd also made a point of getting a few for the apartment as well. They should fit hands my size, he'd insisted, using said hands to squeeze Billy's face. At the time Billy hadn't cared that much and the price had been right. But now he was glad for them. There was something "of hearth and home" about them, and they fit in well with the atmosphere Billy was hoping to convey.

He steps away for a moment to attend to a customer, leaving Dom to his thoughts and his tea. For a while after moving to the States, Dom tried to become a coffee person. He jumped in head first, bought a coffee grinder and press, purchased interesting blends of whole beans. But while he liked it well enough, it gave him what he described as the wrong kind of rush, so he was soon back to his morning tea. Billy thought it would have been easier for Dom to Americanize himself if he just worked at changing his accent. He spent weeks chastising Dom for using the wrong slang or curse, for emphasizing the wrong syllable or pronouncing vowels incorrectly. When Dom threatened to add cinnamon to everything Billy ate for the rest of his life, the teasing abruptly stopped.

Billy returns by way of the cash register and the kitchen, but things are picking up so he stops playing coy and agrees to go to the church the minute Dom begins his sale pitch again, picking up where he left off. Dom smiles into his cup, then finishes quickly and heads back upstairs. He occupies his time with busy work, returning calls and e-mails, updating his own Web site. There are a couple of jobs he's already booked for next month and last week he sold a piece from the latest show at the gallery, so he's feeling flush and comfortable. He thinks about how hard Billy works and feels a twinge of guilt for the freedom to have a lazy day or two from time to time. It makes him resolve to make tomorrow all about Billy, not showing Billy what he sees but rather looking through Billy's eyes to picture what can be reborn from the rubble. He can go back the day after and the day after that to crawl through every corner, to shoot what he wants.

What most interests Dom is the organ in the choir loft, broken and abused, a film of plaster and dust covering the surprisingly intact keys. There's a beauty there Dom needs to capture, and he'll spend as much time as he needs trying to trap it with his lens. It's possible much of what he wants to film might now be gone, but not likely. People tend not to take or disturb things from churches. Abandoned houses, government facilities, absolutely; Dom learned early on that if he was smart he'd take the pictures that most interested him on his first trip. But he believes people thought it invited too much bad karma to remove anything from a church, no matter how thick the dirt on the floor, no matter how many vines now stretched across the stone. Of course, further decay could change a space from one day to the next, but that he had no control over and often found the differences were just as fascinating.

This afternoon he decides to head out into the hills, take some shots of the landscape and, if he's lucky, photograph a few unusual creatures along the way. Billy doesn't mind when Dom hangs out at the cafe; it's often useful to have an extra pair of hands around. But today Dom knows he's finishing the arrangements for an upcoming gallery exhibit and doesn't need the distraction or have the time to give Dom direction. He writes a quick note for Billy in case he pops upstairs during the day, grabs his equipment and a few handfuls of trail mix – he will not call it gorp no matter how much Billy tries to make him – and heads for the car.

 

It's rained for most of the day and Dom's soaked through when he gets back from his excursion, but it was a productive day: he'd taken several shots he's quite pleased with, and is already planning on a repeat visit when the sun's brighter. It reminds him that he needs to plan a few trips if he ever wants to finish the project he's been fussing with for the past couple of years. Some of the pictures he envisions are of different seasons, climates he isn't going to find close to home. He likes traveling but he knows he keeps putting it off because he'd rather take the trip with Billy.

They are a well-traveled pair. Between the two of them they've lived on three continents, five countries and a dozen cities and towns. Billy once drew a line on a map from each of their former homes to the next, making a kind of warped polygon with a long tail. Dom said it should be their mascot, a kind of symbol of their lives. He thought they should get matching tattoos, but Billy nixed the idea. Something about it looking like a swollen, demented sperm that put him off. Instead, when the new sidewalk was laid outside the cafe, they drew the symbol into the wet cement as it cured. They always wonder if anyone notices it.

After drying off, Dom flits about the cafe for a minute before settling in the kitchen occupying himself with small tasks like refilling salt shakers and pepper mills so no one else will have to take the time to do them later. He also just enjoys watching Gina work; likes to see how she puts her dishes together and how she runs the kitchen. Dom loves how she and Billy have kind of adopted each other, opposite in every possible way and as close as siblings. Billy said he knew the minute she walked in that she would be a friend for life, and as far as Dom was concerned that made her special. He learned early on that she was like the Tower Guard of kitchens: no matter how hard he tried to make her laugh, the most he could get from her was a smile. This afternoon proves no less successful. Except she sends him upstairs at the end of the day with two extraordinarily well-sized pieces of her famous apple pie, a result Dom believes proves she's at least been entertained.

Slowly they shed the demands of the day, boxed and sealed them beside the front door. There's a steady patter of raindrops against the roof, and the streetlights glisten through the water-specked windows, magnifying the bright paint colors and mosaics that cover the building. The window is open a crack, and the clean, fresh smell after a storm is slowly filling the room. There's been some slight flooding in the basement, but thankfully they incurred no real damage.

Their plates have been clean for a while, a delicious accompaniment to an old science fiction movie and a night spent playing MST3K, making each other laugh and getting pleasantly buzzed. Billy finishes his beer as Dom flops against his side, starting to catch his second wind as he knows Billy is close to sleep. Their days don't mesh perfectly, waking and sleeping always a bit askew, but they make time for each other at every opportunity. Dom turns his head and burrows into Billy's neck, absorbs the warmth and his intoxicating scent. Soon he'll have to pull Billy to his feet and steer him toward the bedroom, let his dreams remove the final traces of 'businessman' from his skin. Tomorrow they'll explore the abandoned church and walk through Billy's vision of the space, maybe head down to the ocean and catch a wave or two. Dom will take as many shots of Billy as he can get away with and they'll dragoon a passer-by to take a picture of them together. They'll laugh, they'll talk, they'll keep each other safe. It will be a good day.

**Author's Note:**

> These three [**pictures**](http://www.flickr.com/photos/intherough/2465713315/) were kind of the [**starting point**](http://www.flickr.com/photos/ippy_ippy/1120056965/) for [**different parts**](http://www.flickr.com/photos/katiedee/3742658950/) of this.


End file.
